


Like Honey From Your Mouth

by thefairfleming



Series: The Threesome in the North [9]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 21:29:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming





	Like Honey From Your Mouth

The kitchen maid seems frightened which, Jon thinks as he makes his way into the large room, can only mean one of two things: either Ghost has come looking for treats, or Val has decided to cook.

It’s the latter he sees as soon as rounds the corner. His wife stands by the table in the center of the room, her golden hair caught in a loose braid, her hands white with flour as she scowls at a bowl in front of her.

“And what are you up to?” Jon asks, coming to look over her shoulder only to have her elbow him away.

He clutches his chest in mock pain as he staggers back, and one corner of those lovely lips lifts in something near a smile. “Never you mind, Jon Snow,” she tells him before blowing a lock of hair off her forehead and looking more closely at the bowl. “I don’t remember it looking this…lumpy.”

“You need to add more milk, milady,” the maid offers, and Val gives a slight snort, bracing both hands on the table.

“And a moment ago, you said it needed more flour.”

The girl pales slightly and Jon hides a smile as he walks around the table to stand opposite Val, bracing his own hands in an imitation of her posture. Val is a kind mistress all things considered, but the kitchen is Sansa’s domain, usually, and the maids there are used to her gentle words.

“I-it did,” the poor maid stammers. “But I believe that you…you may have used too much, begging your pardon, milady, so it n-needs more milk to-,”

“Never mind with all the ‘milady’ talk,” Val says with a wave of one white hand. “I understand. More milk it is.” She reaches for the bottle and splashes in what is almost assuredly too much milk, and Jon sees the kitchen maid’s brow wrinkle with concern.

Or terror.

Lifting his head, he gives the girl a little nod, and with obvious relief, she scurries from the kitchen. Val glances over her shoulder as she stirs before turning her gaze back to Jon.

“You’d think I’d pulled a knife on them from the way they look at me.”

“Have you?” Jon counters, and Val grins.

“Not yet.”

He smiles at that, and for several moments, just watches her stir whatever it is she’s so intent on making. It’s an odd sight, Val in the kitchen. She can cook well enough, he knows, but she prefers open flame, skewering things on sticks in the outdoors. Finding her in the kitchen seems as strange as discovering Sansa in the training yard.

Although, Jon realizes as he pictures just that,  such an image is not without appeal. Almost as appealing as Val is now, streaked with flour, expression intent, the sunlight playing along the bright strands of her hair.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she says without lifting her head from her work.

“LIke what?” Jon asks, even though he knows exactly what she means.

“Like you mean to toss my skirts up.” She sets the bowl back on the table with a thump. “Don’t mistake me, I mean to let you once this is done, but for now, I am too busy for you and your cock, Jon Snow.” She waves a hand at him, much as she had at the maid just moments before. “Go on, on your way.”

“You’re a cruel woman,” Jon tells her, reaching over to pluck an apple from the nearby bowl, but planning on doing her bidding. If Val wants to spend her afternoon in the kitchen, so be it.

However, as Jon lifts the apple, he notices the other fruit piled on the table near Val’s elbow.

“Lemons?” he asks, lifting his eyes to Val’s as understanding dawns. “You’re making lemoncakes.”

She snatches the lemon from him, leaving a white streak on his hand. “Oh, hush.”

But Jon is far too delighted- and far too touched- not to say so.

“You’re making lemoncakes for Sansa,” he says, and to his surprise, Val seems to color slightly. Val, the boldest woman he’s ever known, the woman who never hesitates to say-and do- all manner of filthy things,  _blushing._

It’s stranger even than finding her in the kitchen, and Jon finds himself coming around the table to catch her waist and pull her against him, her back to his chest, his nose nuzzling behind her ear.

“You’re a sweet girl, my Val,” he tells her, and earns another elbow to his gut for his troubles.

“Going soft over a woman baking,” she scoffs, but she doesn’t try to free herself from his hold, and when he presses tighter against her, he hears her suck in a deep breath.

“Well, perhaps not  _soft_ ,” she amends, and when Jon nips at her earlobe, she laughs before finally untangling herself from him.

“She wasn’t feeling well this morning, and said lemoncakes were the only thing she wanted,” Val says, turning back to her work at the table. “I asked the maids to make her some, but they were being so damned slow I thought I might as well do it myself.”

Jon’s smile fades. “Not feeling well?” It was true that Sansa had seemed tired last night, so much so that the three of them had shared their bed only to sleep, Sansa with her head tucked under Jon’s chin, Val curled around her back. But she had not seemed  _ill_.

Now he watches as Val slices a lemon open, the bright smell of citrus filling the room, and folds his arms across his chest, brow furrowed. “Should I call for the maester?” he asks, and Val squeezes the lemon over the bowl.

“No,” she tells him before jerking her head towards the pile of fruits. “And you might as well help seeing as how you’re the cause of all this.”

Jon’s frown deepens, but he does as he’s bid, walking back to the table and taking a lemon and a knife. “The cause? Of Sansa being ill? I did have that fever, but that was months back-,”

Val makes a sound that might be a laugh or a groan, and looks up at him, laying her knife flat on the table. “Jon Snow,” she says, leaning forward. “Do you need a lesson in how babes are made? I knew you kneelers were weak, but I didn’t think you were stupid as well.”

Jon only stands there, her teasing insult not even penetrating. “Babes?” he echoes. “Sansa…she’s with child?”

Val smiles then, walking around to take the knife and lemon from his suddenly numb fingers.

“Aye,” she tells him, slicing the fruit herself. “She says she’s not sure yet, but I’ve been around enough birthing women to know.”

Glancing up, she shoots him a wry look. “Seems you two were busy in my absence.”

It’s true that when Val was gone, he and Sansa had discussed children. Had set out to try to conceive one, so he should not feel so surprised at the news that their efforts were successful, and yet…gods, a  _child_. His very own son or daughter to hold in his arms.

“If you weep into my lemoncakes and spoil them, that will be the last child you ever father,” Val warns, pointing with her knife. But he sees the fondness in her face, his own happiness reflected in her eyes. But there’s something else there, too, something he can’t put a name to before she turns away.

“She’ll want to tell you herself when she’s sure, so don’t let on that you know,” Val continues, going back to her spot at the table.

“I won’t,” he promises, although he’s not sure how he’ll be able to look at Sansa without all that he feels showing clearly on his face.

“Good,” Val says, stirring the mixture again. “Because I won’t have anything upsetting her.”  
And then Jon realizes what it is he hears in her voice, what it was he saw in her eyes.

She is pleased with this turn of events, but worried, too. Perhaps a great deal more than she is letting on, and Jon thinks of Dalla, of the closeness between Val and her sister.

“Nothing will upset her,” he vows, reaching across the table to curl his fingers around her wrist. “Or hurt her or even displease her in the smallest way. We will keep her safe and happy.”

Val stops stirring and lifts her head, her eyes meeting his. He expects another taunt, or a remark both sweet and sharp all at once. Instead, she simply says, “I know.”

They work in companionable silence after that, Jon bringing Val the molds for the cakes and handing her a long spoon with which to scrape the batter from the bowl. Only once the cakes are safely baking does Val take off her apron and step into his arms.

She tangles her hands in his hair, covering him with flour, but Jon doesn’t mind, happy to kiss her, to hold her against him in this warm room that smells of lemons and sugar and Val. Happy to imagine Sansa’s face when they bring her her treats, lumpy and ugly though they may be. Happy to think of his child, sleeping safe within her.

When they part, Val looks up at him with that knowing glint he loves so well. “So now that you’re to be someone’s father, are you too respectable to fuck me in the kitchen?” she asks, and Jon’s laugh echoes off the stones.

“Never,” he swears.


End file.
